JUSTICE.

Upon the everlasting hills Thronéd Justice works, and waits. Between the shooting of a star, That falls unseen on summer nights Out of the bosom of the dark, And the magnificent march of War, Rolled from angry lands afar Round some doomèd city-gates, Nothing is to her unknown; Nothing unseen.

Upon her hills she sits alone,

-Ibid.

DINING.

O hour of all hours, the most blessed upon earth,
Blessed hour of our dinners! The land of his birth;
The face of his first love; the bills that he owes;
The twaddle of friends and the venom of foes;
The sermon he heard when to church he last went;
The money he borrowed, the money he spent;—
All of these things a man, I believe, may forget,
And not be the worse for forgetting; but yet
Never, never, oh never! earth's luckiest sinner
Hath unpunished forgotten the hour of his dinner!
Indigestion, that conscience of every bad stomach,
Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him with some
ache

Or some pain; and trouble, remorseless, his best

ease,

As the Furies once troubled the sleep of Orestes. -Lucile, Pt. i, C. ii.

And in the balance of eternity

Poises against the What-has-been The weight of What-shall-be.

WOMAN.

How blest should we be, have I often conceived,
Had we really achieved what we nearly achieved!
We but catch at the skirts of the things we would be,
And fall back on the lap of a false destiny.
So it will be, so has been, since this world began!
And the happiest, noblest, and best part of man
Is the part which he never hath fully played out:
For the first and last word in life's volume is-
Doubt.

The face the most fair to our vision allowed

Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd. The thought that most thrills our existence is one Which, before we can frame it in language, is gone. -Lucile, Pt. i, C. v.

PERHAPS.

Yet there's none so unhappy, but what he hath been
Just about to be happy, at some time, I ween;
And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance,
But what once, in his life, some minute circumstance
Would have fully sufficed to secure him the bliss
Which, missing it then, he forever must miss.
And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave,
Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would have;
But, as though by some strange imperfection in fate,
The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too
late.

The Future's great veil our breath fitfully flaps,
And behind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps.

ENNUI.

-Ibid.

Alas! who shall number the drops of the rain?
Or give to the dead leaves their greenness again?
Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake hath
rent?

Who shall bring forth the winds that within them are pent?

To a voice who shall render an image? or who From the heats of the noontide shall gather the dew?

I have burned out within me the fuel of life. Wherefore lingers the flame? Rest is sweet after strife.

I would sleep for a while. I am weary.
-Lucile, Pt. i, C. vi.

SELF-LOVE.

Self-love's little lap-dog, the overfed darling Of a hypochondriacal fancy.

-Lucile, Pt. ii, C. ii.

CONCEALMENT.

When first the red savage call'd Man strode, a king,
Through the wilds of creation-the very first thing
That his naked intelligence taught him to feel
Was the shame of himself; and the wish to conceal
Was the first step in art. From the apron which Eve
In Eden sat down out of fig-leaves to weave,
To the furbelow'd flounce and the broad crinoline
Of my lady . . . you all know of course whom
I mean.

The art of concealment has greatly increas'd.
A whole world lies cryptic in each human breast;
And that drama of passions as old as the hills,
Which the moral of all men in each man fulfills,
Is only revealed now and then to our eyes
In the newspaper-files and the courts of assize.
-Lucile, Pt. ii, C. iii.

LOVE.

First love, though it perish from life, only goes Like the primrose that falls to make way for the rose. For a man, at least most men, may love on through life:

Love in fame; love in knowledge; in work: earth is rife

With labor, and therefore, with love, for a man. If one love fails, another succeeds, and the plan Of man's life includes love in all objects.

-Lucile, Pt. ii, C. v.

EMS.

And the traveler at Ems may remark, as he passes, Here, as elsewhere, the women run after the asses. -Lucile, Pt. ii, C. i.

VALUE.

There is purpose in pain, otherwise it were devilish. -Ibid.

TOO LATE. "And is it too late?" No! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate. Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in vain. For the thought that springs upward and yearns to regain

The pure source of spirit, there is no Too LATE. -Ibid.

PATTERSON LEON MCKINNIE.

DOCTOR

PATTERSON LEON MCKINNIE of sturdy and patriotic ancestors. He was born at Cadiz, Ohio, May 22, 1844. His parents and grand-parents were native Americans. His paternal grandfather served in the Mexican war. His father was a captain of the old state militia. His maternal grandfather was a soldier of the Revolutionary war, and at one period had charge, for two years, of the supplies for a part of Washington's army in Virginia. His father's ancestors were Irish, and his mother's Scotch, springing from the Drummonds of Scotland, which was his mother's maiden name. He inherits the traits of the Scotch-Irish to a marked degree. The Scotch tenacity of purpose, when in the right, is strongly indicated in his nature: outspoken and independent, and firm under strong opposition, but which is balanced by the lighter and warmer nature of the Irish blood. These traits have brought him in close relation and friendship with many of the prominent men and officials of the country in both state and nation. His writings abound in denunciation of all shams and deceit, and he hates subterfuge and injustice. In youth he learned what labor was. He was at school when the War of the Rebellion broke out, and was studying Latin and the higher mathematics under a private tutor. He enlisted at the first call for volunteers for the Union Army, the martial spirit stirred by the Kansas border troubles and "Uncle Tom's Cabin " fresh in his mind. He was mustered into the service in April, 1861, in Company H, Second Iowa Infantry; reënlisted at the end of the term for three more years, and was engaged in the campaign and battles of Donelson, Shiloh and Corinth. During the war he began to write both prose and verse for the press. At the close of the war he completed his education and graduated at Rush Medical College. He married Celestia A. Grey, of Biddeford, Maine, a greatgrand-daughter of James Wilson, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. He engaged in the practice of his profession with marked suc-¦ cess at Moline, Ill., yet finding time to devote, in some measure, to writing both prose and verse for the daily newspapers and periodicals of Chicago, Denver, Kansas City and local papers. In 1884 he accepted the position of chief medical examiner for a large life insurance association, which he held for six years, and in which he took a prominent part in the exposure, in connection with the state authorities, of gross frauds perpetrated on the association. He is at present medical director of the Grand Army of the Republic, Department of Illinois, to which position he has twice been elected, and in

which he is known all over the country from his well-known patriotic contributions to the press, and also as a public speaker. He has traveled widely, and his intuitive knowledge of character is evinced in his well-known character sketches and dialect poems.

Doctor McKinnie has written a great deal over the nom de plume of "Finn Phenix," and his writings have been widely copied. His humorous poems and sketches breathe always a true humanity and fine sense of humor. His national and memorial poems are filled with the spirit of patriotism and love of brotherhood.

The Doctor is a member of a number of scientific and literary societies and clubs, and as public speaker, politically or on the lecture platform, he is recognized as a champion of human rights. Doctor McKinnie is now living at Evanston, Ill., the charming university suburb of Chicago on the shores of Lake Michigan. His family consists of his wife, two sons and young daughter to whose education, and to literary pursuits, he is much devoted. A volume of his poems and sketches will soon be issued from the press. J. A. S.

THE PRESS AND FAST MAIL.
FROM the lake-side city, whose thousand spires
Sprang from the conquered ashes of fires,
Like Phoenix of old, to a destiny greater
Than her votaries' fondest dreams, await her,
In the somber darkness, taking its flight,
Like spectral giants, with wings of white,
And time and distance and light defying
The press and fast mail as Mercury flying.
Freighted with thoughts of the teeming brain,
Commending the right, the wrong to arraign,
With a message of hope, of peace and strife.
Of losses and gain, of death and life,

Of sorrow and joys-the work of the world,
For itself portrayed; as a scroll unfurled,
'Tis the press that is fearless to dare and to do
The work of the gods, for the just and the true.

Scorning the darkness in its meteor flight,
Like an arrow of fire in plutonian night;
Then to race with the rays of Aurora, she springs
Away, fast away, while merrily sings,

In a yaddle and trill, the whirr of her wheels
As they cling to the steel, like a being that feels.
The pulse of the spheres as they whirl in their path
Flies the press and fast mail as a sphere in its wrath.

Over prairie and hill, with their harvest of grain,
Mississippi! Missouri! away, o'er the plain,